I am not immune to my varied weaknesses…
And lo, on the seventh day did Billy go amongst the people and he was distressed. For the air was chill and he was not as laden with the spoils of Cupertino as he might have been. True, the condensed sounds of two tortured souls were flowing into his ears through blackened and twisted wires, and the imprisoning box of dreams hung heavy in his pocket, but still there was treasure to be had in the fields that lay to the west of the city. Those fields, so newly opened, were thronged with the newly dead, recently risen and thronging together in a perverted semblance of their previous activities: shuffling aimlessley and with little purpose around a giant market, the likes of which have seldom been seen on these shores. The far flung colonies have long entertained such areas of commerce, but the stout folk of Brittania have held off at least that one facet of their infernal “culture” for this long. But now our high walls have been breached and the antipodean face of The West Field has been rolled across the salted grounds of White City and I am called there, like a foolish moth to an ugly flame.
I negotiated passage on a carriage powered by voltaic energy and was dragged from the bowels of the earth by a metal staircase that was pulled by no horses. I pushed my way through the moaning crowd and entered the brightly lit warehouse, candles hanging from every beam and strange trees glowing with a mystical light. A magic box instructed me on the path I should take and soon I found myself placed in front of the glowing Temple of The Holy Fruit. I threw open the portal and strode in, only to find myself beset by blank eyed acolytes, slumped over mysterious devices and proding them with doughy hands. I spied a lesser priest and called him to me. He was, however, constrained within the altar area and I had to lower myself by going to him – one cannot get the recognition of status by the cults of the lesser man that one used to. His hair was strangely styled, and his accent barely understandable and punctuated with cries to some deity of “Innit”. I reached for my stout stick, but held off from a beating, as at this time of year we of sound body and mind must look kindly upon those who are weaker than ourselves.
“Bring to me a device that I may touch, lesser in stature than its brethren and not of the ilk that allows me to cast my voice to the winds. Bring it to me quickly and I will not beat you as much, oh foul cultish wretch”, I exclaimed, grabbing the head of my stick in the manner that the lower classes are wont to interpret as “with intention”. He cowered from my acted wrath, both of us understanding the nature of this age old commercial exchange and ran to his counter to bring me my requested bounty. We bartered for a moment and he made a note on my account of the price, for as all know a gentlemen does not use cash for a general purchase unless a vulgar situation calls for it. I departed the House of Steve and, employing my stick for its designed purpose, beat a literal path towards the gates and the following descent into the earth for my trip back to my apartments.
So now I sit here inscribing these words into my journal, with my new device humming gently beside me dispensing the wisdom of those bikers most hairy whilst I contemplate what sainted works I may achieve with it when I apply my newly resurrected ingeering skills to its ‘essdeekay’. Some may use these devices for the enjoyment of the euterpian arts, but I reckon I’ll just watch iplayer in bed.